A Single Droplet

The Breaking Point I linger in the waiting room, flipping through old magazines and eavesdropping on other people’s muffled conversations, when suddenly I hear, “Victoria!” Always slightly embarrassed when people use my full name, I obediently get up and make my way toward the voice. I am led around the corner and invited into a small office, lounge chair to the left, a swivel chair to the right. My eyes glance out the large window overlooking the outdoor stairs, parking lot, and pine trees. I’m anxious, oblivious to the smaller objects scattered around the room, my mind moving faster than my eyes can see. I sit in the middle of the lounge chair; it’s clearly for me, the patient. I cross my legs, hoping this makes me look confident, and make eye contact with my new counselor, a short, middle-aged woman with curly dark hair. I’m ready to tell her everything because I am ready to be fixed. I’m here to patch myself back together and I want it done yesterday. After we introduce ourselves and politely chat for a few moments, I dive into why I’m here: intrusive thoughts, looping thought patterns, and high anxiety. I don’t care that this woman is a stranger. I don’t mind sharing my issues. I’ve seen other therapists; this isn’t new to me. I figure the sooner I spill it all, the sooner she can give me the solution I so desperately seek. I’m tired of feeling scared of my own thoughts. I’m exhausted fighting with myself every minute of every day. I need the panic attacks to stop finding me on vacations and in meetings at work. I need to be able to trust myself again and not get sucked into the dark vacuum of my imagination. My knuckles are white, trying to hold all the strings of myself together, as if I’m clinging to a hundred balloons that are whipping around in high wind. I need to be fixed. I need this woman to fix me. After sharing my mental health history, I tell her that I’ve been able to get better every time something hard has come up. “I can handle myself,” I say to her, and I think about the little flame inside of me. No matter how dark it gets in my mind, this flame never goes out. I’ve always felt it—the willingness to keep moving forward. Later in life a good friend would explain that this is resiliency. “These thoughts and anxieties come and go,” I continue, “but the reason I’m sitting in this chair is because they always return. I want them to stop. I want the fear to go away. I need peace.” I try to explain the process of my brain. “It’s like playing Whac-A-Mole. Every time I think I’m better, the unwanted thoughts come back, disguised in a new mask, taking me for another roller-coaster ride. I want to get off the roller coaster. I need to get off.” I finish bringing her up to speed and she responds with a sly smile. “Spoken like a lady with OCD,” she says. My heart stops and a lump grows deep inside my throat. The blood drains from my face as I feel full-on defense rising up from within, a combination of fury and heartbreak, swallowing me whole. How does this stranger say something so bold and life-altering only halfway into our first session together . . . and so matter-of-factly? How dare she label me? How can she overlook all the work I’ve done, all the things I’ve overcome? As I had told her, I could have easily spun-out into a life of chaos and self-destruction. But I’ve held onto every single string. I’ve kept myself and my life—my really full and healthy life—together. Intact. Doesn’t that count for something? My mind went on . . . Does she know what it’s like to hold onto oneself like this? How exhausting it can be? How unsettling and lonely? Doesn’t she know that a label like that can destroy someone? Make them feel completely hopeless? Like the work they’ve done doesn’t matter? That they should just let go of every single string and give up? What’s the point of holding on if you’re doomed to begin with? I’m a lost cause, I tell myself. And at that, I drop my head into my hands and sob.